The Bloody Basement
She clenched a crumpled IOU note in her hand, spitting on my face as she told me I was responsible for repaying the five hundred thousand debt.
The gambler across the street rubbed his hands, his gaze glued to me like a snake flicking its tongue.
My mother shoved me toward that man, telling me to endure just one night—that money could solve everything.
I stared at the streetlamp outside the restaurant window, thinking about jumping.
At seventeen, she had already gambled away every path I had—at six, I burned my hands cooking instant noodles alone; at twelve, she locked me inside, starving me for three days, and now, she was going to sell me.
Just as I reached for the window latch, the door swung open.
Yale Shawn walked in, his black coat dusted with snow, followed by two bodyguards in black suits, instantly crushing the foul air in the restaurant.
He didn't look at my mother, nor at the gambler—only his eyes locked on me.
His voice was as cold as ice: "Five hundred thousand. I'll settle it for her."
My mother's eyes gleamed; she hurriedly grabbed me, thanking him, saying that from now on I belonged to the Shawn family and would obey.
Yale crouched down, his fingertips brushing my frostbitten chin: "Good. From now on, you will stay only by my side."
At that time, I believed he was my savior.
Only later did I realize he was the devil dragging me deeper into hell.
Yale Shawn's villa rested halfway up the mountain; it was called the Mist House.
The room was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking snow-laden woods and a wardrobe filled with beautiful dresses, yet the door was locked tight and the windows barred with security grilles.
The first time I 'disobeyed' was because I wanted to call my Grandmother, who lived far away in the countryside.
Before I could even dial, Yale Shawn gripped my wrist from behind.
He was strong; I heard my bones crack, and the pain brought tears streaming down my face.
"Who told you to touch the phone?" He lowered his head, his breath falling on my neck, heavy with menace.
I bit my lip and said I missed Grandmother, but he smiled—a dark, cruel smile: "Nancy Scott, now you have only me."
That night, he locked me in the closet.
There was no light inside, only the smell of camphor balls on the clothes. I curled up in the corner, listening to my own heartbeat until dawn.
When he brought me breakfast, there wasn't a trace of remorse in his eyes.
He handed me the warm milk and said, "Next time you dare think about someone else, it won't be as simple as locking you up for one night."
I obediently nodded and drank the milk.
In this house, obedience was my only way to survive.
Over time, I learned to read Yale Shawn's temper.
When he was pleased, he would take me to buy jewelry, have the kitchen prepare my favorite Sweet and Sour Fish, hold me on the balcony watching the snow, and say my eyes were like a clear spring he once saw.
Once, I mentioned in passing that my grandmother used to make osmanthus cake for me, sweet and delicate.
A few days later, the scent of osmanthus drifted from the kitchen's steamer.
Yale Shawn stood at the restaurant doorway, watching me stare at the bamboo steamer. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Try it, see if it suits your taste."
I bit into it, sweetness spreading across my tongue, but my eyes grew warm—though the flavor was far from my Grandmother's, in this cold, unfeeling house, it was a rare warmth.
Seeing my silence, he mistook it for dislike, his expression darkening. "Not good?"
I quickly shook my head and shoved the remaining half into my mouth. "It's good, thank you."
He didn't ask any more questions; he just sat across from me, watching me finish an entire piece of osmanthus cake, his eyes concealing emotions I couldn't understand.
But when he's displeased, he pushes me down the stairs.
That time, it was because I caught the delivery guy's eyes twice while I was in the garden.
He said nothing; after the delivery guy left, he immediately reached out and shoved me down the stairs from the second floor.
I tumbled to the first floor, hitting the back of my head on the steps, and blood instantly poured out.
He came down, knelt beside me, wiped the blood from my face with a handkerchief, and said calmly, "What's mine, no one else is allowed to look at."
The pain was so fierce I couldn't speak; I could only watch him.
He added, "But don't worry, I'll make sure the doctor treats you."
Later, the doctor gave me seven stitches, saying that if the wound had been any farther off, it would have pierced my brainstem.
Yale Shawn sat by the bedside, peeling an apple for me. The peel came off thin and continuous.
He said, "Nancy Scott, I'm just scared of losing you."
I bit into the apple without saying a word.
At that time, I didn't realize his 'fear of losing me' was never love—it was pure possession.
Over those three years, things like this happened countless times.
Once, I was carrying the foot-washing water; it was a little too hot, and he splashed the entire basin onto my feet.
The scalding water seeped through my socks; I jumped up in pain, but he forced me into a corner and pulled out a box of silver needles.
"Do you understand what you did wrong?" He grabbed my chin, making me look him in the eye.
I nodded, tears mixing with the blood on my feet as they streamed down.
He plunged the needles into the skin on the back of my hand, one after another, saying this would make me remember and never make the same mistake again.
That night, Nanny Lewis secretly brought me some burn ointment.
She pulled a small folded note from her pocket and quickly slipped it into my palm: "Ms. Scott, be careful of Ms. Lincoln—she's already been asking about you."
I gripped the note tightly, but before I could ask anything, she hurried away nervously, as if staying one second longer would get her caught.
Later, I tucked the note inside a book, planning to ask Nanny Lewis when the time was right—but before I could speak, Rachel Lincoln had returned to her country—and that note became an unspoken question.
Nanny Lewis was the housekeeper of the estate, always looking after me the best she could—when I scraped my knee, she was the one who applied the medicine; when Yale Shawn locked me up, she secretly slipped me bread; on my birthday, she cooked me a bowl of longevity noodles.
She traced the needle mark on the back of my hand and sighed, "Ms. Scott. Mr. Shawn... he just cares about you too much."
I looked at Nanny Lewis, wanting to voice the hurt inside me, but in the end, I only said, "Thank you."
In this house, having someone willing to be even a little kinder to me was enough.
I thought such days would go on forever.
Until the news of Rachel Lincoln's return exploded in my world like a bomb, shattering all my peace.
Rachel Lincoln is Yale Shawn's first love.
Nanny Lewis quietly confided to me that when Yale Shawn was young, he had fallen out with his family over Rachel Lincoln, and after she went abroad, he turned into the man he is now.
The first time I saw Rachel Lincoln was in the hospital corridor.
She lay on the bed, covered in a white blanket, her face swathed in bandages, with only her eyes visible.
Yale Shawn sat beside her, holding her hand, his gaze filled with a tenderness I had never seen before.
I stood at the end of the corridor, watching them, feeling as if something was suffocating my heart.
Nanny Lewis came over and whispered, "Ms. Lincoln was caught in a fire abroad, suffering burns over eighty percent of her body. Mr. Shawn found the best doctor and said she would need skin grafts."
I said nothing and turned to leave, but I overheard the conversation between Yale Shawn and the doctor.
The doctor said, "Mr. Shawn, large-area skin grafts require matching donors, which are very difficult to find."
Yale Shawn's voice was urgent, filled with a panic I had never heard before: "Use Nancy Scott's. Her blood type matches Rachel's. As long as it can save Rachel, even if we have to strip her skin completely, it doesn't matter."
I froze where I stood, my blood seeming to congeal instantly.
It turned out that, in his heart, I was nothing but disposable "material," ready to be sacrificed at any moment.
I wanted to run, but my feet felt as if they were filled with lead, frozen in place.
Just then, I accidentally stepped on a can lying on the floor. With a sharp clang, it startled everyone in the ward.
Yale Shawn turned around, frowning when he saw me. "Nancy Scott, what are you doing here?"
I shook my head, trying to hide, but he quickly strode over and pulled me into the ward.
When Rachel Lincoln saw me, a flicker of cruelty flashed through her eyes, only to soften again into a fragile mask.
She clutched Yale's hand, crying, "Yale, am I really that ugly? Even this lady is mocking me..."
Yale Shawn patted her on the back, soothing her, "Don't talk nonsense; she wouldn't dare."
Then he turned his gaze to me, his eyes cold as ice. "Nancy Scott, apologize to Rachel."
I looked at the bandages on Rachel Lincoln's face, then into Yale Shawn's eyes, and slowly knelt down.
My forehead hit the cold floor repeatedly, until it began to bleed.
I heard Rachel's cruel laughter, and Yale's cold indifference, but not a single word urging me to rise.
Rachel stared at me and said to Yale, "Yale, this lady's skin is so tender, so white and smooth. If only I could have it transplanted onto me."
Yale Shawn smiled, holding her hand and kissing the back of it: "It will happen. As long as you want, her skin will soon be yours."
I lay on the floor, tears falling to the ground, spreading into a small patch of dampness.
Just three days ago, Yale Shawn was still holding me, saying I'd been obedient lately, that he would marry me, give me a grand wedding.
It turned out all those words were lies.
Yale Shawn ordered the bodyguards to take me back and lock me in the basement.
He said, "Stay put. Tomorrow morning, come with me to the hospital to get skin grafts for Rachel."
I clung to the hem of his pants, pleading, "Yale Shawn, eighty percent of my skin will be gone—it'll kill me! I have a coagulation disorder; even a small bleed won't stop. You can't treat me like this!"
He crouched down and pried my fingers apart, his tone calm: "Don't be afraid. I'll have the doctor perform a new skin graft. After I rescue Rachel, I will marry you."
Then he turned and walked away, not once looking back at me.
The basement was pitch black, without windows, lit only by a dim, yellow light.
Sitting on the floor, I recalled the stories my grandmother told me as a child—how good people would be rewarded. But why have I never received any such reward?
I called out to Nanny Lewis, knowing she cared for me, hoping she might help.
Before long, the basement door opened. Nanny Lewis came in, followed by two bodyguards.
Like a drowning woman grasping at straws, I clung to her sleeve. "Nanny Lewis, save me! Yale Shawn wants to kill me. I can't undergo the skin graft—I'll die! Please, help me call the police!"
But Nanny Lewis pushed me away; the warmth in her face was gone, replaced only by cold indifference.
She told the bodyguards, "Pull two of her teeth to stop her from biting her tongue to kill herself."
I was stunned, unable to believe my own ears. "Nanny Lewis, what did you say? Was all your kindness to me just an act? And that note you gave me before..."
Nanny Lewis's expression shifted, then quickly reverted to cold indifference. She pulled a pair of pliers from her pocket. "I thought you could become Mrs. Shawn, so I treated you a bit better. Now that Ms. Lincoln is back, you're nothing but a useless substitute. Still want to live? That note? It was a moment of weakness—I never meant it."
The bodyguard stepped forward, grabbed my arm, and forced me down to the ground.
I struggled, shouting, "No," but they were too strong—I couldn't move at all.
When the pliers touched my tooth, a sharp pain made me scream.
Blood flooded into my mouth, both salty and metallic.
I looked at Nanny Lewis; her face showed not an ounce of sympathy, only impatience as she urged the bodyguard, "Hurry up."
I fainted the moment my two front teeth were pulled out.
When I woke again, a towel was stuffed in my mouth, blood still flowing, dripping from the corner of my mouth onto the floor, staining a small patch dark red.
I recalled the hospital checkup from yesterday; the doctor had told me my coagulation disorder was severe and warned me never to get hurt.
I hadn't even had the chance to tell Yale Shawn before he locked me in here.
The basement was well soundproofed. I pounded on the door, shouting "Help," but no one outside could hear me.
I heard the bodyguards drinking and playing cards outside, saying that if my skin graft went smoothly tomorrow, they'd get a bonus.
It turned out that, in their eyes, my life was nothing more than a transaction to be traded for money.
The blood kept flowing, more and more; I felt my body growing colder and colder.
My consciousness began to blur. I seemed to see my grandmother standing in the courtyard of the countryside, calling me "Nancy," urging me to come home and eat dumplings.
I wanted to run toward her, but Grandmother's figure drifted farther and farther away until it finally morphed into Yale Shawn's face.
He crouched beside me, holding Sweet and Sour Fish, my favorite dish, and said, "Nancy Scott, stop making a fuss and come home with me."
I wanted to tell him that I hurt, that I didn't want to die, but I couldn't open my mouth—I could only stare at him.
Darkness slowly closed in, and I felt myself rising, floating upward.
Someone reached out their hand to me and said, "Come with me, it won't hurt anymore if you go."
I nodded, following that light, slowly walking toward it.
I lost track of how long I had been drifting until I heard Nanny Lewis's voice.
She opened the basement door and called out impatiently, "Nancy, stop sleeping—you need to go to the hospital!"
Then I saw her freeze, her expression shifting from impatience to horror.
"Blood... it's everywhere!" she screamed, stepping back and bumping into the bodyguard behind her.
The bodyguard stepped inside and, seeing me on the floor, was startled: "She... she looks like she's dead."
Nanny Lewis pulled out her phone, fumbling nervously as she called Yale Shawn.
I hovered beside her as a spirit, hearing her voice tremble: "Mr. Shawn, something's wrong—Nancy Scott... she's dead!"
On the other end of the line, Yale Shawn's voice was cold and indifferent: "Don't joke with me. Today is important for Rachel."
Nanny Lewis sobbed, "I'm not joking. She's lying in the basement, covered in blood, already cold!"
Yale Shawn said nothing more and hung up immediately.
Nanny Lewis collapsed onto the floor, muttering, "It's over. All over..."
Before long, Yale Shawn arrived.
He entered the basement, saw me lying on the floor, and furrowed his brow. "Nancy Scott, stop pretending. Get up."
He came closer, crouched beside me, and reached out to touch my face.
The moment his fingertips brushed my cold skin, his body went rigid.
"Nancy?" He called out once more, his voice betraying a barely concealed panic.
He lifted me up; my head lolled against his chest, blood still trickling from the corner of my mouth.
He carried me as he ran toward the garage. When his bodyguard tried to open the car door, he shouted, "Get lost! Don't touch her!"
As the car started, he ran through three red lights; the dashboard alarm blared harshly, but for the first time, tears fell from his eyes, landing on my cold face—those tears burning like the scalding water he once poured on my feet.
He freed one hand and slipped mine into the pocket of his coat, just as he used to do in winter when my hands were cold.
But the warmth in that pocket no longer reached my fingers, which had turned completely cold.
He muttered, "You always said my hands were warm and asked me to warm yours—why have you gone silent now?"
I hovered beside him, watching his profile.
His brow was tightly furrowed, and in his eyes, I saw a panic I had never witnessed before—as if he couldn't believe I was truly dead.
At the hospital, the doctor examined me and shook his head, saying, "Mr. Shawn, please accept my condolences. She's already dead from severe blood loss. Coupled with her serious coagulation disorder, there was no hope."
Yale Shawn stood frozen for a long while, then suddenly laughed bitterly: "Impossible. She was fine just yesterday. How could she have lost so much blood? Are you sure?"
The doctor handed him the autopsy report: "Mr. Shawn, we conducted a thorough examination. There are two wounds in her mouth caused by external force, resulting in tooth loss. Combined with her coagulation disorder, this led to fatal blood loss."
Yale Shawn held the report, his hands trembling; he couldn't focus on a single word.
Just then, the police arrived.
They entered the ward and said to Yale Shawn, "Mr. Yale Shawn, we have received a report that Ms. Nancy Scott died under suspicious circumstances. We need you to come with us to the police station to assist with the investigation."
Yale Shawn looked at the police, then glanced at me lying on the hospital bed, his tone flat: "She is my wife; she just accidentally got injured and died. This is a family matter; you have no need to interfere."
The police produced handcuffs: "Mr. Yale, based on the crime scene investigation and autopsy report, Ms. Nancy Scott's death is suspected to be homicide. Please cooperate with us."
When Yale Shawn was taken away, he looked back at me.
Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 591190 】reads the whole book.
My Fiction
SnackShort
Booklite« Previous Post
Besties' Divorce Brigade
Next Post »
The Reborn Doctor's Revenge